Sunday, 7th December
The shores of Derwentwater, 3pm
Henry Armstrong didn’t need to be a detective to know where his father would be at this time on a Sunday afternoon. Because, for as long as he could remember, Dr. Armstrong had taken a stroll along the shore of Derwentwater every Sunday, come rain or shine, and he always timed it so that his walk finished precisely at sunset. It was, Armstrong thought as he drove from Carlisle to Keswick, his dad’s equivalent of a religious observance. A lifetime passing, week by week, and measured out in the transit of the seasons and the stiffening of the joints. Henry had checked when sunset would be that day, and calculated exactly where his father would be at 3.05pm. When he reached his destination he sat on a bench, the welcome winter sun barely warming his cheeks, and rehearsed, once again, what he intended to say.
‘Hi, dad’, he said, when his father came round a corner, walking at his usual brisk pace. Henry rose, fell into step alongside him and was immediately reminded of how fast his father walked, as if he was trying to escape from something, but without ever actually running. His dad didn’t look especially pleased to see him, but that was no surprise. His Sunday walk had always been a solitary ritual.
‘Hello, Henry. What’s the problem?’
‘Why should there be a problem?’
‘Come on, what’s happened? Something wrong at work?’ His father seemed to brighten slightly at the prospect.
‘In a way, aye. It’s about your car.’
‘The MG? What about it?’
‘We’ve lost it. Well, I suppose that I’ve lost it, really.’
‘I see.’
Dr. Armstrong didn’t so much as break his stride, and they walked on in silence for a minute or two, the damp, dead leaves scattered by their rapid footsteps.
‘Good,’ said Dr. Armstrong eventually. ‘I’m glad it’s gone.’
‘What? You love that car.’
‘I don’t. I’ve half wanted to get rid of it for years, to tell the truth.’
‘But why?’
‘You work it out for yourself, Henry. Look, it was good of you to come out and tell me, but there’s no need for you to walk with me. I like to have this time alone, I know you understand that. But one thing, before you go. How come it got lost? I thought you fitted a tracker?’
‘I did. But it fell off. I’m really sorry, dad. It was magnetic, so it should never have dropped off. I don’t know what can have happened. I tried it on my car first, and it was absolutely fine, honestly.’
His father laughed. ‘You didn’t put in in the nearside wheel arch by any chance, did you?’
Henry thought about it for a moment.
‘I did, aye. How did you know?’
‘Because it was nearly all filler. I did it myself, years ago. It was all a terrible bodge, really. Like I said, that car was no loss. Not really.’
They walked in silence for another minute, Henry not taking the hint from his father’s silence, and he was surprised to find that he didn’t feel at all relieved. He actually felt rather irritated. ‘I’ve been working fourteen hour days trying to find that bloody car, dad. I’ve been to every scrapper from here to Preston, and I’ve called very MG restorer I could find, countrywide. And I’ve never been off the bloody internet, looking for bits of your car for sale.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Henry, but you should have told me sooner. I don’t mind, honestly. Just forget about it, son. People matter more than things, infinitely more. And living in the past never did anyone any good, did it?’
‘I suppose it all depends on what happened there, dad.’
His father stopped, mid-stride, and faced his son.
‘That’s true, Henry. But absolutely nothing lasts forever, good or bad, that’s one thing my job reminds me of everyday. So it’s best to look forward, isn’t it? So tell me, do you still enjoy being a policeman?’
‘I do, dad. Except when I’m chasing round the bloody spot looking for missing old bangers, like.’
‘And are you on duty in the morning?’
‘I am, aye.’
‘Are you looking forward to it?’
‘Honestly? I can’t wait.’
DC Armstrong turned, and started walking back the way he’d come, raising his arm in silent salute. His father stopped and stood watching him go, just for a moment, and then set off again, his stride long, and his pace undiminished.
Monday, 8th December
10.07am, Dr. Collier’s office, Portland Square, Carlisle.
Pepper Wilson was glad to be out of the office. She’d been in since before eight, first making sure that she’d done everything that she needed to in advance of the Maxwell operation, and then double-checking every form and email before she sent it. And she was still miles behind with her operational paperwork. What made it all the more galling was that most of the case work that it related to was trivial, and involved people who’d been nicked for much the same offences ten or twenty times before. Another conviction would make no difference to anything, except the clear-up stats. And all the while Dai Young was getting away with bloody murder. But she was making a huge effort not to think about him. So as she sat in that chilly hall, waiting for Collier to call her in, she tried to count her blessings. But maybe that was something that only old people did really well, and she soon gave it up as a bad job.
When she finally got in to the consulting room Collier chatted for a couple of minutes, and she found herself becoming impatient. ‘I’ve been thinking about what makes me angry, doc.’
‘Good. And….’
‘I’ve been wondering whether the drivers are internal, external or a mixture of both. I reckon it’s a mixture.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, I’d like to say it’s everyone else’s fault, because that seems to work bloody well for the cons. They use that line all the time, anyway. You know, I could say that it’s just the job, spending my life dealing with shitty people doing stupid things to victims who are weak and vulnerable. I could say that’s what makes me so angry all the time. But it can’t be just that. So go on, ask me why not.’
‘All right. Why not?’
‘Because I’ve got colleagues, mates, with more years in than me, and they don’t get as wound up as me. Nothing like, in fact. I know a DS, Barry he’s called, and he never gets annoyed with the bastards, no matter what they’ve done. I sat in on an interview with him once, with a bloke who’d molested his nine year-old grand-daughter, and you’d think he’d been done for planting his roses at the wrong time of year, the way Barry talked to him. But I just wanted to throttle the bastard.’
‘Did you ask your colleague how he managed to stay so calm?’
‘I didn’t, no. That’s funny, isn’t it? I spend half my bloody life asking questions, but never think of the important ones.’
‘You’re thinking of them now though, aren’t you? So, if I’m hearing you, you think that the reasons that you find it harder to remain calm have more to do with you, rather than external factors?’
‘Up to a point, aye. I’ve been thinking about it all weekend, trying to remember what I was like before I was a copper. Was I any different, deep down, like?’
‘And were you?’
‘Do you know what, doc? I don’t think I was, not much.’
Collier nodded. ‘Maybe that’s good. Who wants to be defined by their work? But even if you didn’t talk to this Barry about how he stays so calm, you must have thought about how he manages it.’
‘Oh aye, I have. Maybe that’s why I didn’t ask him, because I already knew, like. Old lags like him have skins like rhinos, and when they walk out that door they forget the whole body lot, the sounds, the smell, the pain, the misery, all of it. They just go home and get on with decorating the back bedroom, or whatever it is.’
‘I see. And do you envy him that ability to switch off?’
Then Pepper did something that she rarely felt the need to do, even for effect. She paused
before she replied.
‘You know what, doc? I bloody don’t, actually. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not lazy, isn’t Barry, but he’s never going to catch anyone worth nicking. He spends his time scooping up the ones that can’t bloody help themselves, and the ones who pretty much grass on themselves. And then he reckons he’s done a good job. And in some way he has, I suppose.’
‘So you’re ambitious, Pepper?’
‘I was, aye. But now I’m not so sure. I never used to question why I’m doing the job, but now….’
‘You’re having doubts? What about, exactly?’
‘Everything, doc. I’m even starting to doubt my own judgement, to tell you the truth. And that’s never really happened before.’
‘About what?’
‘Lots of things, but here’s one example. You know that villain I told you about? The one who I think is moving in on this area? The one I knew when I was a kid.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Everyone else seems to be convinced that he’s just a wannabe, a nobody, really. That it’s all in my head. I’m building him up in to some sort of evil genius, and he’s nothing but another loser, just like all the rest of them.’
‘And you think they might be right, after all?’
‘I’m starting to, aye. And maybe I’m just as bad as he is. I’m nothing more than a tiny little fish in a tiny little pond, kidding myself on that I’m making a difference. I’m just wasting my time. All I’m good for is nicking nothing cons for nothing offences.’
‘But I thought that low level crime is a major focus for police forces now?’
‘It is, and for once the bosses are right. But it’s not CID work, isn’t that. It’s just crowd control crossed with pest control, if I’m honest. I sort of thought that I could do better than that, that’s all. But maybe I was wrong. It’s all politicians and bloody university types in the job these days. Oh, no offence, doc.’
‘None taken. So long as you weren’t calling me a politician, of course.’
Rex Copeland wasn’t on duty until 2pm, so he strolled into town to do a bit of Christmas shopping. And he was enjoying the fact that the centre of Carlisle was so busy. It felt a bit more like home. He’d stopped noticing how few black faces there were, too.
He’d just had a coffee, ambled past the tall Christmas tree in the square, and was starting to feel a sense of goodwill to at least some men, when something caught his eye. A middle aged man, about twenty feet ahead of him, walking almost alongside a young couple, just a little too close for comfort. There was something familiar about that little vignette, and before he’d even consciously recognised it the older man’s hand darted out empty and returned with a dark brown wallet. He was as quick as a snake. The young couple were blissfully unaware, and as the older man moved away Copeland started to run. He called ‘Police, stop’ and launched himself at the man, who half turned and tried to dodge to one side. But it didn’t work, and Copeland dragged him down, and pushed his arm up behind his back. ‘You, mate, are nicked’ he said, and a fraction of a second later he sensed someone approaching fast from his right. He fell sideways when the impact came. His head hit the cold pavement, and hit it hard.
When he came round there was more of a crowd round him than there was outside Santa’s grotto in the centre, and they seemed to be having more fun too. The uniformed Sergeant talking to him glanced round when she’d checked that he could hear her, and Copeland saw two uniformed PCs trying to interview a couple of people, while onlookers tried to interject.
‘That’s him, the pickpocket,’ Copeland said, pointing at one of them. ‘But who the hell jumped on me?’
‘That was the other bloke, the one who was robbed. A bit of a misunderstanding, apparently.’
‘Jesus,’ said Copeland, ‘why do we bother?’
‘Exactly. Do you want him nicked as well?’
‘No. What would we do him for, Sarge, making racist assumptions during the hours of daylight? It’d be like that old TV sketch about the white copper who keeps arresting the same black bloke.’
‘A mister Winston Kodogo?’
‘That’s the one. My dad said that when he saw it on telly, back in the day, he reckoned it was a documentary.’
The Sergeant laughed. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Fine. If you get my pickpocket booked in I’ll be straight back to the nick to do the necessary.’
‘Not so fast. You know the rules. You’ll be carted away in the ambo, assessed by the Police quack, and if you’re really unlucky you’ll be back on the job in a day or two.’
‘I was only out for a minute. Not even that.’
‘How do you know, lad? All right, I’ll tell you what. Seeing as it’s Christmas and all. If the paramedics say you’re OK then I won’t say you were out cold, all right? Just a bit stunned, like.’
‘Cheers, thanks.’
Copeland got up slowly, and made a conscious effort not to touch the back of his head, or to wince. ‘How come our offender didn’t get away?’
‘He tried, but a few of this lot nabbed him.’
‘Great. At least some of them realised that coppers can also be black.’
‘Aye, that’s possible. As an explanation, like. But it’s more likely that they saw your collar on the telly last week, warning folk about pickpockets at Christmas.’
Copeland laughed, and his head hurt. ‘No way, Sarge. You’re having a laugh.’
‘I’m bloody not. Robert Anderson is your boy’s name. He was on the local news just the other day, honest. His Probation Officer persuaded him to do it, apparently. Anyway, a couple of the locals recognised him, pulled the other bloke off you and nabbed Anderson for us.’
‘You couldn’t make it up, could you? How bloody stupid does he have to be?’
‘He says you ruined it for him, actually. He’d already done five others today, and he hadn’t handed off the wallets and purses to anyone, so we’ve got the lot. Always works alone, does Anderson. We only ever know that he’s out of nick because our undetected street robbery stats go through the roof. We call it the Anderson effect, as a matter of fact.’
It was another ten minutes before the crowd dispersed, and another five before the paramedic reluctantly agreed to allow Copeland to return to work. When he reached the station he took the jokes that came his way cheerfully enough, despite the fact that he was the one with an egg-sized bump on the back of his head, because it showed that he was starting to be accepted by the other cops. Piss-taking was part of the culture, and he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
All the while Robert Anderson was sitting comfortably in the interview room. A slight man of about fifty, he was dressed like a bank clerk on his lunch break. He was chatting to the Duty Solicitor about grandchildren when Copeland came in, and he smiled as Copeland sat down.
‘How’s the head, officer?’ he asked.
‘Fine, thanks. So am I right in saying that you’re not going to bother claiming that you found the wallets you had in your possession when you were arrested, or anything lame like that?’
‘That’s right. I’m a pick-pocket. And I’ll tell you one thing, mate. You’re the first person ever to spot me on the job. All these years, and you’re the first.’
‘Your victim didn’t feel a thing though, did he?’
‘They never do. But I was taught by one of the greatest, like. Old Alfie Walters. You heard of him?’
‘Can’t say I have. But then I’m not local.’
‘Look him up, if you get the chance. These young ones, there’s no craft in the job for them, is there? They just make a grab for a handbag or whatever, and then leg it. It’s turning the thieving job into a running race. That’s all it is now. There’s no artistry left.’
‘I feel for you, mate. But is it also right that you were on the telly the other day?’
The man clapped his hands, as if applauding himself.
‘I was, aye, I was. You see it makes no odds usually, because they never
notice you, the punters.’
‘And you work alone, is that right?’
‘Aye, I don’t need a distraction, any of that stuff. I’m a craftsman, not a bloody chancer. If you hadn’t seen me I would have done another ten or twenty today, and then taken the rest of the year off.’
‘Sorry to have ruined your holiday plans. But tell me, what do you do with the credit cards? Flog them?’
‘Aye, but don’t ask me who to, like, because I’m not saying. The bottom’s dropped out of the credit card game anyway, because you can get all the details online so easy these days. And today’s kids haven’t got the bottle to go into a shop with a bent card and have a go, like.’
‘There should be apprenticeships.’
‘Aye, there should. You’re not wrong there, mate. Oh, I see, you’re taking the piss. Well, I’ll tell you one thing. Wouldn’t you rather deal with an honest little thief like me, who’s no bother to anyone, rather than the sort of animals that are out on the street these days?’
‘What sort of animals?’ asked Copeland, a little too quickly.
Anderson was no longer smiling. He looked worried, in fact. ‘No, you forget I said that. Just get me charged and I can get off home. Even with me going guilty my case won’t come up ’til well after Christmas, so I’ll get to enjoy my turkey, like.’
Copeland nodded and smiled, because he just couldn’t help it. Anderson was right. It was nice to meet an honest little working con.
‘Well, you have a good one, Mr. Anderson, because it’ll be porridge for you in the new year. All right, let’s have your statement and get you charged. And you know how this works, Robert. Better than I do, I expect.’
Pepper Wilson was half way through telling Henry Armstrong about what had happened to Rex when his phone rang. He pointed at it and she nodded, and headed off towards her own office. She seemed to be in a decent mood, which made a change. As he answered the phone he noticed her perfume, hanging faintly in the air. Did she usually wear any?
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